


you're going to watch me disappear into the sun

by erce3



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Exes, F/F, everyones gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-10-04 15:10:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10281839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erce3/pseuds/erce3
Summary: If the universe made a habit of responding to you, half of what it said would be that you miss Veronica Lodge. The other half would be reminding you to take your meds.You’re pretty glad the universe doesn’t make a habit of responding.(AKA, the exes au no one wanted)





	1. thought you said you'd always be in love

**Author's Note:**

> edited and fixed up!

****When the invitation had first come in the mail, you weren’t sure whether or not to be delighted or worried. Cheryl’s been posting about the engagement for weeks now, and though she’s the only one left of your college friends, you still didn’t expect to get one.

 

It comes regardless, in a neat white envelope.

 

The card is pretty. Cheryl’s smiling on the outside, arm wrapped around Josie McCoy. On the inside, the date and location are written in simple letters. The whole thing feels like it should be more intense, since you figure that Josie and Cheryl are the most intense and dramatic people you know, but you guess that the minimalistic style _is_ intense.

 

Or, alternatively, they couldn’t agree.

 

It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the lessening of the weight in your chest – Cheryl still wants you at her wedding. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care what Betty or Jughead or anyone else will say.

 

You pull out your phone, nerves still buzzing with excitement. Cheryl still cares about you, and maybe Josie cares, too, and maybe – maybe that can be enough. You figure that you kind of owe it to her to congratulate her.

 

 **veronica lodge** (3:14 PM): congrats!!!!! u guys are so cute

 **cheryl blossom** (3:15 PM): ok rvsp first then congratulate me

 

There’s something so Cheryl about the way she responds that you almost want to laugh. It’s a familiar feeling, texting Cheryl, something you haven’t done in a couple of years. To be honest, you haven’t spoken to anyone from Riverdale U in years.

 

Not after Betty.

 

You pause. Would Cheryl invite Betty _and_ you? Wouldn’t she know – no, wouldn’t _Josie_ be more logical than that? Cheryl’s always loved drama, but Josie wouldn’t want any at their wedding. Josie’s always been a perfectionist.

 

It’s endearing, how they balance each other out. You’ve always loved Josie and Cheryl as a pair – you and Betty used to have double dates with them. They were always so perfect, loud, noisy, out and proud.

 

Before you realize it, you’ve written the message _who else is invited_ to Cheryl and then hesitate. Do you actually want to send that? She’ll know exactly who you mean. But –

 

You push send before you can convince yourself otherwise. It’s for Betty, you think, I don’t want to hurt her again, even though some part of you knows that’s not the reason. No, it’s that you can’t handle seeing her again.

 

Two years hasn’t been long enough.

 

Your head aches.

 

 **cheryl blossom** (3:24 PM): grow a pair and ask me straight up next time lodge

 **cheryl blossom** (3:24 PM): betty’s coming  & she rsvped before congratulating me ..just saying

 

Despite the sinking feeling in your stomach, you smile. Only Cheryl. It lessens the pain of the thought that you might have to face Betty, might have to say hello, or something. You don’t know if you can handle even that.

 

 **veronica lodge** (3:25 PM): i will i will

 **veronica lodge** (3:27 PM): does betty know im..?

 **cheryl blossom** (3:29 PM): is this a yes, youre coming

 

You sigh.

 

 **veronica lodge** (3:30 PM): yes!!! i wouldnt miss it for the world

 

You’ll RSVP later.

 

 **cheryl blossom** (3:31 PM): no, she doesn’t know

 

 _Oh_ , you think. Okay. It feels conspiratorial, in a way, knowing while Betty doesn’t. It’s as if Cheryl is choosing you.

 

 **veronica lodge** (3:32 PM): i dont have josie’s # so tell her congrats too!!!

 

Then, you shut your eyes. You wonder if Betty would go – if _anyone_ would go – if they knew. You remember the sudden and quick silence following your split from everyone. You’d had to go to work the next day, wear something pretty.

 

You haven’t seen her in years, you remind yourself, grabbing a flute and filling it with champagne. She’s not in your life anymore.

 

As you take a sip, you wonder whether or not you’ll ever find anyone like her again.

 

/

 

You hear that Veronica’s going from Josie. “Cheryl doesn’t want me to tell you, but this drama between you and her–” Josie pauses, scrubs her eyes like she doesn’t want to handle this right now, “–it can’t stop my wedding from being perfect.”

 

When you hear it, you go very still, focusing on your heartbeat. Josie’s across from you, trying to look gentle and understanding, like you’re glass, but you can hardly focus on her enough to be annoyed.

 

It’s not that you haven’t thought about Veronica – you think about her more often than not, it’s that she’s going to be tangible. _Near_ you. You don’t know if you’re even ready to forgive her, even after two years.

 

“Okay,” you tell Josie, forcing a smile. It’s okay. Before she can add anything, you turn on your heel to leave. You’re happy for Josie and Cheryl, you really are, but sometimes you wonder why they have to make everything _complicated_. It’s okay, it’ll be okay.

 

You’re halfway out the door when you hear, “Betty?” tentatively, but you don’t turn around. It’s okay. It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay, you think, screwing your face up and willing yourself not to cry.

 

When you go home, you sit on the edge of your bed and try to breathe. You close your eyes, back straight, and try to focus on _in_ , _out_ , but it still feels like you’re underwater. The feeling of depression, the lump in your throat – all of it’s gone. Now, you just feel empty.

 

You pad out into the kitchen, half expecting to see a figure in black sitting there, drinking some herbal tea. You can’t decide if it’s disappointment or relief when there isn’t one. “I don’t miss her,” you say, to no one in particular.

 

If the universe made a habit of responding to you, half of what it said would be _you miss Veronica Lodge_. The other half would be reminding you to take your meds.

 

You’re pretty glad the universe doesn’t make a habit of responding.

 

Grabbing your phone, you scroll through and check your texts. You’ve got one, from Kevin, saying, _listen, i know moose isn’t gay but_..., which you aren’t sure you want to indulge, so you ignore it.

 

You idly wonder whether or not it’d be worth it to take a jog. That’s what you used to do, back when you were a cheerleader and A student and couldn’t sleep most nights. Or – call Veronica, but that’s not an option. You swallow, put up your hair instead, pull up Postmates on your phone, and decide to have a Voltron marathon for the fifth time in a row.

 

You would say you’ve got pretty great coping habits.

 

Jughead calls you about ten minutes later. “Betty,” is all he says, because he knows it’s a little early for Pop’s and he knows it’s all you eat when you’re depressed.

 

“I’m hungry?” you say, trying out a light tone.

 

Jughead sighs over the receiver. “Betty,” he says. “Listen, I’m going to come over.”

  
“Okay,” you say, grateful how he doesn’t mention it’s three in the morning on a school night. “How do you feel about Voltron?”

 

Jughead doesn’t respond for a moment. “Okay,” he says, finally.

 

“Should I wait for you? Have you seen it?”

 

He lets out a shallow laugh. Like there’s something about Voltron that sticks with him, and you don’t have a chance to wonder what because he says, “Yeah, with Archie. Twice. Don’t wait for me, okay? I’ll be there in a bit.”

 

“Um. Right. Okay.”

 

“Bye, Betty.”

 

You breathe in, and out. You aren’t alone, you remind yourself, squeezing your eyes shut. Everything’s okay. The whole world hasn’t left you – just one person.

 

It’s strange, how sometimes the whole world feels like one person.

 

/

 

_“Betty? Are you awake?”_

 

_She turns over in bed to face Veronica, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Mhm,” she says, tiredly, in a drowsy way that sounds like she wants to sleep, but can’t._

 

_“Do you want to go to Coffee Bean?”_

 

_“Veronica,” she says, sighing. “It’s two in the morning.”_

 

_“You aren’t sleeping.”_

 

_“I could have been.”_

 

_“Betty–”_

 

_She turns over before Veronica can say anything, and there’s a moment of silence. “I just want to be here with you,” Veronica says, slowly. “We spend so much time apart because I’m modelling and you’re not sleeping, so I just thought–”_

 

_Betty doesn’t turn back over, but she says, “Veronica,” in a quieter voice than before. “This is enough.”_

 

_“I’m just worried that–”_

 

_“Veronica, please. It’s okay.”_

 

_Despite what she says, Veronica knows the reason Betty isn’t facing her is because she’s trying not to cry._

 

_She doesn’t feel like enough anymore, not for Betty._

 

/

 

You arrive in California two days before the wedding. You’re in the lobby, trying to get your key (“It’s under the name Lodge, like the model? Veronica Lodge?” you say for the fourth time, as patiently as you can muster), when Betty walks through the door and you catch a glimpse of her.

 

The world spins.

 

She’s walking and talking animatedly with Jughead (“I just think that expanding beyond fiction pieces would good for you, Jug”) and he’s nodding, looking a little intimidated, when she sees you, too.

 

Your eyes lock.

 

“I–" she starts, trying to finish her thought, but she’s paused and your throat runs dry at just the sight of her.

 

It’s been two years since you’ve seen her. She’s the same – blonde, neat, warm, animated – and all wrong, too. Tired, maybe. You can’t place it. There’s just something off-kilter about her, like she’s a new person underneath all her normalcy.

 

She looks at you like a deer caught in headlights, and for some reason that hurts more than anything she could say to you in this moment. You’d like to turn around, because the receptionist is saying, “Ma’am?” with the same tone you were using thirty seconds ago, but you can’t tear your eyes away from her.

 

“What – oh,” you hear Jughead say. It sounds like he’s far away.

 

You clear your throat. “Hi, Betty,” you say, a little helplessly. “Quite the Basil Hallward and Dorian reunion, if you know what I mean.” You try on your most winning smile, but it comes on harsh and cold. She pauses, just as helpless as you are. Like you two are drowning in this mess but you’re both too proud to mention it.

 

When you glance over at Jughead, his stare’s hard. “Hi, Veronica,” he answers for Betty, stance suddenly protective.

 

“Excited for the wedding?” you say, turning to the receptionist and holding your hand out for your room key. “Thanks,” you tell her, quietly, and she looks between you and Betty with a slightly nervous attitude. Like you’re about to combust.

 

When you turn around, Betty’s still standing there, frozen. Like she can’t breathe.

 

“Well, nice seeing you,” you say, pretending to be unfazed, and try on another smile. You don’t even try to analyze it, because it feels wrong, still, unnatural, but you can’t give her a real one. “See you around,” you say, and wink, because why not.

  
  
You walk away, and when you get to your room, you stare at the wall and try not to cry.

 

/

 

Jughead turns to you, and taps you, gently. “Betty?” he says, frowning.

 

You still haven’t moved. You can’t breathe and all you can think about is Veronica, cold and harsh and unforgiving. A stranger. Just some celebrity who has no idea who you are. Like you’re nobody.

 

A pause. “You know,” he says, partially to fill the silence, “that reunion is the one where Dorian murders Basil.” You blink. “I wonder who Dorian would be,” he mutters to himself, though you’re already certain you know.

 

Silence, again. “Veronica’s Dorian, isn’t she,” he says.

 

“I forgot,” you say, quiet, not listening to him. “I forgot she was coming.”

He stops talking and watches you, like he doesn’t know how to handle this. “It’ll only be two days,” he offers shyly, and you repress the urge to cry. Jughead doesn’t want to deal with this. He doesn’t deserve to deal with it – he’s dealt with it again and again and again.

 

“Okay,” you say, straightening and tightening your ponytail, trying on a smile, like he’s been reassuring. “I can do two days.”

 

He gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you. I’m sorry, you think, a bit bitter. You try to brighten your smile but it gets more forced and lopsided, and god, why can’t he just believe you, why does he treat you like glass?

 

To be fair, you feel like one wrong word and you’ll shatter.

 

/

 

The wedding is sweet. Cheryl and Josie look like something out of a magazine – picture perfect. You find yourself tearing up.

 

When you glance over at Betty, she’s crying, too.

 

/

 

_“Veronica, you promised you’d be here.” Betty’s pacing, clutching the phone receiver outside the restaurant._

 

_“Betts, I told you–” Veronica’s tinny voice cuts off for a moment and there’s silence, ended only by a long sigh. Betty can picture her running her hands down her face, pained. “You know how my boss can be.”_

 

_Betty closes her eyes and wills herself not to cry. “Veronica, you promised–”_

 

_“Next time, I promise, B, you know how hard this is for me, too–"_

 

_“There won’t be a next time,” says Betty, louder than she means to. “This is it, I can’t–"_

 

_“Are you–?”_

 

_“It’s our anniversary, Veronica.”_

 

_Silence. Veronica’s breaths over the phone are slow and shallow._

 

_“How could you forget?”_

 

/

 

The crowd parts, almost, and through the throng of people, you catch a glimpse of her blonde ponytail and her shoulders moving in laughter. Your mouth goes dry and your heart stops, just by looking at her.

 

Cheryl tugs at your arm–"V, why did you stop dancing?” you hear dimly over the music – but you don’t turn. It’s like you’re frozen, drawn to her, as if nothing’s changed, even after two years.

 

You knew, of course, Betty Cooper would be here, at the reception. You still weren’t prepared to see her, not like this – in a tight pink dress, talking animatedly. Smiling. Happy.

 

You want to talk to her.

 

 _I miss you_ , comes up to the tip of your tongue and by some miracle, she turns around, like your thoughts are loud enough for her to hear.

 

Betty’s blue eyes lock with yours and for a moment, you could swear that her expression softens. There’s a pause, and it hardens again; her eyebrows lock and she turns around, the moment broken.

 

You close your eyes and wonder how you’re going to be able to live without her.

 

/

 

You catch Veronica looking at you from across the room, eyes soft, and for a moment, you remember the good things with her.

 

Her mouth parted open in a laugh. The softness of her kisses. Her fingers on your waist as you danced. For a moment, you can remember every little detail, and you wonder why it ended the way it did.

 

You take a breath and sigh.

 

You can’t do this.

 

You look away.

 

/

 

The party continues the way it always does. Cheryl and Josie disappear after awhile, leaving you alone on the dance floor, which is fine, you suppose. But, after a while, the noise becomes too much and you slip outside for a breath of fresh air.

 

Your favorite part about this location is the view of the beach. It hurts to know it’s in the same town as Riverdale U, but there’s a charm to it, regardless. It’s colder outside, though; you shiver as you close your eyes to listen to the faint sound of pulsing music and the crashing of the ocean waves.

 

You can’t bring yourself to go back inside, and instead decide to head up to your room. You pull out your phone as you start up the stairs and scroll through your new messages.

 

You can’t stop thinking about Betty. About what happened. Your finger slides over the _new message_ button and for a moment you can picture typing her name and then an apology. You wonder if – if you had been more present, if you’d told your boss _no_ more often, if –

 

You close your eyes. You can’t fix this. It’s over, and you know that. You have to know that. This is it – this wedding, this is goodbye.

 

It has to be. You shut your phone off.

 

/

 

_“God, Betty, please pick up,” Veronica mumbles in the cold, gloved hands pawing at her phone._

 

_The phone rings, once, twice._

 

_“Hello! This is Betty Cooper,” says the phone cheerily. “I can’t answer right now, so leave a message and I’ll get back to you!”_

 

_Veronica closes her eyes. She knows Betty’s voicemail by heart at this point._

 

_“Hi, B,” she says, after the beep, “I wanted to let you know, I uh–"_

 

_A pause._

 

_“I miss you. Call me when you can?”_

 

_She knows Betty won’t listen to this, but she keeps rambling, anyways. “Modelling’s going fine. I think I might be able to get a break soon, come see you? If you – um, if you wanted to, of course.”_

 

_She closes her eyes. “Anyways. I love you, bye.”_

 

/

 

The familiar voice message plays for the third time over the tinny speakers of your phone. _“I love you, bye_ ,” says Veronica again and again, and you squeeze your eyes shut. It’s been two years since she sent that voice mail – she sent dozens, but this one’s your favorite.

 

It’s weird, having to start counting up again since you last saw her. Before the wedding, it’d been almost two years. Now, it’s been two weeks. You close your eyes and wonder if she misses you as much as you miss her.

 

Before you know it, you find yourself on her instagram, scrolling through a couple pictures. The first is her backstage, mid-laugh. _Happy_.

 

 _if this dress goes missing its probably bc i stole it_ , her caption reads.

 

In spite of yourself, you smile.

 

You keep scrolling. Another picture of her on the runway – _thankful for fashion week!_ – and pictures of her in New York, staring pensively in her apartment, modelling articles of clothing, always smiling.

 

You’ve forgotten how much you love – _loved_ her smile.

 

You stop at one you remember taking with her, at her apartment. The first and only time you’d stayed with her in New York. She’s wearing blue, purple, and pink stripes – the bi pride colors. _proud,_ she’s written. Forgetting yourself, you tap the picture twice.

 

Sudden, quick panic rises up in your throat.

 

“Oh my god,” you say to yourself. And then, faster, breathier, “ohmygod.”

 

This picture is from, like, two years ago. _You just liked a picture of your ex from two years ago_.

 

You pick up your phone and call Jughead. Surely he’d know what to do.

 

When he answers, you launch headfirst into a retelling. “I was on her instagram and I liked a picture and _oh god_ , Jughead she’s going to know that I was stalking her she’s totally going to be freaked out we’re _exes_ , Jughead, what am I going to do if I unlike it does her notification go away–"

 

“Betty,” he says, and you can picture him closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. “She’s _famous_. She probably won’t even see the notification – she gets tons and tons of likes.”

 

You pause. He’s right.

 

“Okay,” you say. “Maybe I should stop stalking her.”

 

“Maybe,” he agrees. “Anyways, instagram is all about hiding the true self in a futile attempt to convey perfection, so you won’t get anything out of it.”

 

“Jughead,” you point out, “you have an instagram.”

 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t recognize its flaws.”

 

You sigh. “Okay.”

 

Silence. And then, “Hey, Jughead?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Thanks.”

 

/

 

It’s been two weeks and you’re still trying to convince everyone you’re not depressed. You live in New York, you’re rich – what do you have to be depressed about?

 

You’re also drinking alone at seven P.M. on a Friday, so.

 

There’s something.

 

You take a sip of vodka from your champagne flute and kick one of your thousand-dollar heels away from you. You can’t find the other one, and aren’t really bothered to look.

 

You’re scrolling through instagram. Another post from Cheryl about her _wife, can you believe it_ and how talented Josie is, which is far from surprising.

 

And then – a notification.

 

You get plenty of notifications; you’re famous and you have over ten thousand followers on instagram. But this one notification catches your eye.

 

_bett.coopers liked your photo._

 

You suck in a breath, because it’s your coming out photo, the one where you’re in the bi pride colors, the one you took with her in New York, a month before it’d all ended.  Of course it’d have to be that one.

 

You close your eyes and take another sip of vodka. Everything is fine. You’re not sad, or lonely – you have friends and even though Betty just liked your picture, it doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.

 

She’s not part of your life anymore.

 

And yet – everyone knows that people who drink alone at seven P.M. on a Friday are sad, or lonely. And you’re _not._ At least, you’re pretty sure you aren’t sad. You and your solitaire app are having a pretty good time. You might be lonely.

 

You’re not sober enough to tell.

 

It’s sort of a lie, though, because you’ve quit solitaire and you’re scrolling through her contacts. You’d like to text someone, or something. You’re not really paying attention to who you decide, but when you check –

 

You find your finger hovering over the name _Betty Cooper_ and suck in a breath of air.

 

No. No way.

 

You’re not drunk enough for this.

 

You take another sip of your vodka.

 

/

 

 **veronica lodge** (7:23 PM): why dotn you ever call me anymore

 

/

 

Your head spins as you reread the text, again. You’ve been staring at it long enough that the screen dims, then turns black. You turn the phone back on, debating whether or not to call Jughead. As you do, it buzzes, and you jump.

 

 **veronica lodge** (7:26 PM): you knwo yuo have read reciepts on rihgt

 **veronica lodge** (7:26 PM): i also saw you liked my photo

 

Your stomach drops. Of _course_.

 

 **betty cooper** (7:27 PM): I don’t call you because you won’t pick up.

 **veronica lodge** (7:28 PM): i woudl. try adn youll see

 

You close your eyes and remember the voicemail. _“Anyways. I love you, bye_.”

 

She picks up on the second ring. “I know you’re drunk,” you say, before she can say anything.

  
  
“You’ve always been able to read me,” she responds. Her voice has always been clear when she’s drinking – she always sounds sober, though her voice is different, this time. Thicker, maybe, like she’s about to cry.

 

A pause. Softer, she says, “I forgot how beautiful you are.”

 

You don’t know how to respond.

  
“It’s been two years and I still couldn’t breathe when I saw you. I forgot. God, how could I forget?”

 

You laugh. It gets caught in your throat and it sounds more like a croak and you will the tears not to come. “I was debating not coming, you know. When I found out.”

 

It’s Veronica’s turn to give a bitter laugh. “You would.”

 

Silence.

 

“I didn’t forget that, you know. How much I hurt you.”

 

“Veronica–"

 

She interrupts you. “I wanted you to know. That I’m sorry, that I couldn’t fix it, that everything was wrong and I just loved you so much and I wrecked it and I can’t forgive myself for that, you know, because you’re so beautiful and kind and I loved you, B, but all I ever did was hurt you and–"

 

“I’m moving to New York,” you blurt, then cover your mouth.

 

You haven’t told anyone. You haven’t even told Jughead.

 

“I – what?”

 

“I’m moving,” you say, slower. “The Times, they hired me.”

 

“Betty–"

 

You don’t want to have this conversation. You aren’t even sure why you told her. God, you don’t know what to do or say. All you can think, is –  “I loved you, too, Veronica. I want you to know that.”

 

She laughs again, and it’s garbled. “We can’t do this,” she says, finally.

 

“No, we can’t,” you agree. “I hope–"

 

“I hope we don’t see each other in New York,” she finishes for you, and it sounds like a lie.

 

You know it wouldn’t sound any more truthful if you had said it. “Yeah. That.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, finally, and the phone clicks off.

 

When it’s over, you start to cry, wet tears streaking your cheeks. You want to chase her – to apologize, but it’s over.

 

You have to move on.

 

/

 

You go to work on Monday and put on your biggest smile. You’re in a new ad for a swimline, made specifically by a woman of color designer and being modelled exclusively by women of color models.

 

You’re excited.

 

Or, you were, but now all you can think about is Betty.

 

Betty, coming to New York.

 

You try to focus on anything else. On your face, on modelling, on the paperback you brought with you to distract you on your lunchbreak.

 

You end up scrolling through her instagram. It’s all pictures of city landscapes and bits and pieces about whatever news piece she’s reporting on, but it tugs at your heart, anyways.

 

For the first time, you’re forced to recognize you miss her – irreparably. You can’t just _find_ another girl – or boy – who will patch up whatever hole she’s made in your life.

 

You’ve been struggling with this knowledge since the phone call. If only you’d been drunker, you think, if only you didn’t remember.

 

_“I loved you, too, Veronica. I want you to know that.”_

 

Past tense.

 

You loved her.

 

You love her.

 

For you, there’s no difference. No break in between. You feel as if you’ve lost everything by screwing up with Betty. Some days, you’ve been able to convince yourself you could make it without her. That she wasn’t the love of your life.

 

Today, without a doubt, you know that there is no one else. There’s nothing else.

 

The woman calls you up for makeup and you take a final bite of your salad.

 

You wonder if it’s the same for her.

 

/

 

Jughead offers to throw you a going-away party. It’s not really one, though, because you already knew he was moving out to upstate to study English Lit, so you guess you’ll be able to visit. Anyways, he’s not the party type, and you don’t want him to be uncomfortable.

 

You haven’t told him about Veronica, but he seems to recognize you’re still reeling from seeing her.

 

“Betty–" he says, softly, as you sit across from in at a booth at Pop’s. You’re watching your milkshake distractedly. You startle as you hear your name. Jughead takes off his beanie, runs a hand through his hair nervously, and then puts it back on. “Um, maybe it’s time to reconnect with Veronica.”

 

You freeze, heart beating. He doesn’t know about the phone call, but all you can think about is her _“I’m sorry_ ”, her _“I loved you_ ” and wonder what your name would sound like on her lips, breathless and happy. You can’t remember.

 

“I can’t,” you say, finally. “It’s – it’s too much.”

 

He closes his eyes, misreading your tone. “You know I hate her as much as you do – more, even, but I can’t stand to see you like this.”

 

You wonder whether or not to tell him. You inhale, exhale, and then say, “I called her, Friday night.”

  
  
He blinks. “You didn’t tell me.” It’s not angry, just – surprised. You’re not good at keeping secrets, usually.

 

“I, um,” you pause. “She was drunk.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“We – talked. I forgot, Jug, what her voice sounds like, when she’s sad. I forgot–" You feel the lump in your throat grow, and tears threaten to roll down your face.

  
Jughead watches you, careful and quiet. “I know,” he says, finally.

 

/

 

 **jughead jones** (11:13 PM): i hate you

 **veronica lodge** (11:14 PM): wow, thats news

 **jughead jones** (11:14 PM): but betty doesn’t and so i propose a truce

 **jughead jones** (11:15 PM): i’m offering you my aid in getting beronica back together

 **veronica lodge** (11:30 PM): weve literally never been at war but ok. im ok w that

 **veronica lodge** (11:31 PM): tho you know it wont work. she doesnt love me anymore

 

/

 

“Bye, Jughead!” calls Betty as you drive away, suitcase in her hand. She’s smiling, like she’s about to go on an adventure. You can’t remember the last time she’s smiled like that. All you can think about is her breakdown at Pop’s.

 

You would’ve said, a couple years ago, that Betty and Veronica were soulmates. Forged in iron or something poetic.

 

Now, though?

 

Now, you’re not so sure.

  
  
****


	2. i'll come get my things, but i can't let go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao what a mess...so this is going to be longer than expected, sorry yall.. i promise a happy ending, tho

Betty leaves before you do. The apartment you shared changes rapidly in the few months that you pack to go to grad school. In a way, it gets dirtier, despite how you’ve been piling everything into boxes.

 

“Oh, Jughead,” she says on Skype, eyeing your room. You offer her a noncommittal shrug.

 

“It’s important to recognize your flaws.”

 

She rolls her eyes, and the pixelated picture of Betty freezes in the middle of her exasperated, playful gesture. She seems so happy in New York, but beneath it – well, you can see the bags in her eyes, her drooping shoulders.

 

You know she misses Veronica. You can feel it. You only wish – you only wish something would happen to draw them back together again. That’s the problem with the two of them – they’re both ridiculously stubborn. And, you suppose, unwilling to call themselves worthy of one another.

 

“ _Jughead_ ,” she demands, unfrozen, and your attention snaps back to your computer screen.

 

“Sorry,” you say, pausing to decide on your excuse. _I got distracted._ “You froze. What were you saying?” You offer her another shrug and she rolls her eyes again, but doesn’t freeze. She’s watching, you, too, studying you. As if you’re the fragile one.

 

You expect her to say, _So you got distracted?_ but she doesn’t. She just smiles and moves on, saying, “It’s also important to overcome your flaws, Jug.” In some ways, it’s as if she’s returned to Betty-Before-Veronica, shyer. Softer around the edges. And yet – broken.

 

“Well, I would say that’s arguable.”

 

She frowns in response, opening her mouth and you pause. You, despite the logic, despite knowing that it was equally the pair’s faults, blame Veronica for this. For re-breaking Betty.

  
Only something drastic would fix their relationship now.

 

/

 

The world slides slowly into focus as you open your eyes, and lie on your back. Jughead’s been texting you; your phone vibrates again, but you ignore it. It’s a lazy sunday morning – the sun is inching its way through the sky and light through the slats of your window.

 

You sigh.

 

New York has always been a dream, but you can’t stop wondering if you’ll see Veronica; if she’s there when you turn the corner, at the grocery store, in the lobby at work – it’s kind of sad, really, living life as if the person you want to see is almost there.

 

Not that you want to see her. Kind of.

 

Especially because you know your circles are completely different. You know – what, exactly? You know that you were the one who let her go. You know that you were the one who cut ties. You know that because all this, you’re not exactly allowed to want to see her.

 

 _I loved you_.

 

God, and since – since the wedding, you haven’t been able to breathe, because Veronica’s gone and all you can think about is how you lost her. How it’s your fault. You close your eyes again, imagine what’s happening to her, this very moment.

 

Everything will be fine, you think, sighing. You’re just… tired. Sleepy. It’s been a lot, recently, what with being a new reporter in a new city, et cetera, et cetera. You’ll be fine. After all, you’ve made it two years or so without Veronica.

 

You think about the phone call.

 

_I loved you._

 

Have you? Have you ever made it past Veronica?

 

_I loved you I loved you I love you_

 

The alarm beeps, loud and obnoxious, and you repress a sigh. You have to get dressed, go to work. You push the thoughts of Veronica from your mind and pull on a warm cardigan.

 

As you step outside, you check your watch and sigh inwardly. You’re late because, well, you’re late. Though the reason isn’t enough to explain to your boss, you don’t have anything else. “

 

Eight. It’s not like your boss will care. You’re mostly tasked with buying coffee, so you’re usually late anyways, grabbing everyone else’s orders.

 

Seven.

 

There’s a flash of light, suddenly, then a horn, and a screeching of tires. Six. You turn your head to see a yellow car racing towards you – the red hand is flashing and counting down, you notice dully, four, three, and –

 

 _Look out!_ you hear distantly, and then the world flashes white and then red and there’s a crunch and you can’t breathe, suddenly

 

two

 

like the world has gone out

 

you can’t feel anything

 

you can’t move

 

one

 

and everything flutters to black.

 

/

 

 **jughead jones** (6:17 AM): betty i found a ring in your stuff today that you didn’t take with you

 **jughead jones** (6:18 AM): like. an engagement ring

 **jughead jones** (6:18 AM): betty???

 **jughead jones** (6:21 AM): betty?????????

 

/

 

Your phone rings, and the caller ID _Betty Cooper_ flashes on your phone. Fuck, you think, scrambling for it, because you haven’t heard her voice in nearly a month and you think it’s killing you.

 

There’s a bolt of happiness, too, excitement. That she’s calling you. Maybe, you think, she misses you, maybe –

 

You close your eyes and tap accept. “Hello?”

 

_“Is this Veronica Lodge?”_

 

A pause. It’s not Betty’s voice – higher, maybe. Clipped. “I – uh, yes? Who is this?”

 

Silence.

 

_“You’re the emergency contact. I’m regretful to inform you that there’s been an accident. What is your relationship to the–”_

 

Everything cuts out, fast and quick and you have to focus on your breathing. You can’t tell what hits harder, that you’re her emergency contact, or, worse, that there’s been an accident. “What happened?” you force out, dully, weakly.

 

And you had thought – that maybe –

 

A pang of guilt slices through your gut. The person on the phone says something about a drunk driver and your ears ring. You can’t even concentrate. All you know is you’re grabbing a sweatshirt and yelling for a taxi and you have to make it to the hospital, oh my god if she _dies_ –

 

It occurs to you, a little later, to text Jughead.

 

 **veronica lodge** (8:15 AM): betty’s in the hospital.

 

He doesn’t respond – probably sleeping, you think, and your eyes flutter shut. You haven’t sleptall weekend. Quickly, you wrench your eyelids open.

 

Don’t be ridiculous, Veronica, you tell yourself. You can sleep in the waiting room.

 

/

 

_The phone clicks off, and the tears threaten to come. Betty shuts her eyes and tries not to cry – she’s in a scarlet red dress, outside a nice restaurant, and Veronica –_

 

_Veronica didn’t even come. She wants to pretend that it’s okay, that maybe in the morning she’ll tell Veronica that she didn’t mean it, they’re aren’t over, that it’s okay that Veronica forgot their anniversary, but something tells her she won’t. She can’t keep doing this._

 

_She kind of wants to hurl the box she has in her purse into the river._

 

_If it didn’t cost like, a billion bucks, she would have. Stupid Veronica, she thinks, trying not to cry. Betty wrings her hands and wipes her eyes and steadies her breathing. Stupid Veronica didn’t even turn up to their anniversary dinner, let alone –_

 

_Let alone their engagement._

 

_She’d had it planned out. One date, for their anniversary, for their engagement, for their wedding, because that would’ve been sweet and cute and – picture perfect. They would have been picture perfect._

 

_She’d had a lot of things planned out. Betty sighs. Veronica isn’t here._

 

_She realizes it’s going to take a lot to recognize that Veronica isn’t coming back._

 

/

 

“Please, please let me in, she’s dying–”

 

The nurse shakes her head, and you can’t see, you can’t breathe, this isn’t how it was supposed to end even _Jughead_ wanted you back together you can’t lose her now, not when you were so close –

 

You slump back, suddenly breathless. What are you doing? You’re not hers anymore. You don’t even know why you’re here. Quietly, slowly, you right yourself. “I um, I’m sorry,” you say, blinking back the wave of emotions that’s rolling in your stomach. “Could you do me a favor?”

 

The nurse tilts her head. “I still won’t let you in.”

 

Of course. “No, could you have me removed as Betty’s emergency contact?”

 

Silence. The nurse looks confused, like your sudden switch in personality doesn’t add up and your throat catches, because all of a sudden you want to take that back, but you know – you _know_ that if Betty woke up and you were the first and only person by her side, it’d be –

 

Disastrous.

 

She doesn’t love you anymore.

 

You turn to leave, to go get lunch. “I texted her friend. I’m sure he’ll be here soon, but I just can’t – just make sure she knows, okay, that I’m her emergency contact and I’d like to be removed. Thanks.”

 

You turn to leave before she can see the tears in your eyes.

 

/

 

 **jughead jones** (10:12 AM): wait what

 **jughead jones** (10:12 AM): veronica what’s wrong

 **jughead jones** (10:12 AM): is she okay????

 **veronica lodge** (10:15 AM): she got hit by a drunk driver. they said she’ll be fine.

 **jughead jones** (10:15 AM): how do you know

 **veronica lodge** (10:17 AM): i’m her emergency contact.

 **veronica lodge** (10:17 AM): was. was her emergency contact.

 

/

 

The first coherent thought you have is, I hope my mom doesn’t show up.

 

Then, the tiredness and the dull ache hit you like a wall. You fall asleep.

 

/

 

“Veronica, you just left? You _idiot_!” Cheryl sighs. “God, who even are you? You’re like, not that famous, no offense, so like, you don’t get automatic pardoning for being an ass. Come _on_.”

 

You blink. “I don’t think it works that way.” And then, a pause, as you hear her breath over the receiver of the phone like she’s waiting for you to tell her she’s right. Well. She isn’t.  “I can’t, Cheryl.” You clutch your phone, trying to word the hopelessness and the feeling of – of something without bursting into tears. “We’re not–”

 

“Bullshit, babe.”

 

“Cheryl–”

 

“Listen. I love you, Lodge, but don’t be an idiot. Grow a pair and go back.”

 

A pause. Cheryl’s breathing again, louder, like she’s brought the phone closer to her mouth. “She loves you.” She says it breathily, quietly, like she didn’t know she was going to have to say it – maybe she didn’t even know she knew it until she said it.

 

You give a hollow laugh. “No, she doesn’t. Anyways I – I don’t, either, I can’t, not after–”

 

Cheryl’s laugh is clipped, harsh. Like you’re lying. Like she doesn’t believe you. You can practically picture her eyeroll. “I can’t believe I have to bully you into going to the hospital to meet your girlfriend. Veronica–”

 

You hang up and stare at the wall.

 

/

 

_Veronica holds the phone delicately, even after the call’s ended. Anniversary. She wants to scream, to cry. She hasn’t slept in two days, has been working since two this morning, and Betty just –_

 

_Just ups and leaves._

 

_Veronica knows it’s fair to be angry – she’d forgotten, after all. How could she have forgotten? She’s pacing, now, trying to figure out an excuse. They can’t be over. They can’t be over. How could today even be – she’d thought it was Thursday, not today – she’d –_

 

_Veronica smoothes down her dress and sighs. She picks up her phone, squints into the bright screen, and calls Betty._

 

_It goes straight to voicemail._

 

/

 

Jughead calls you twice before you pick up. You expect him to be angry, maybe even to cry, but his voice is barely above a whisper. “Where,” is all he says, and then, “are you in the waiting room?”

 

You sigh. “No.” You’re exhausted – Cheryl’s just given you the same speech you know is coming out of Jughead’s mouth. You don’t want to be bothered. It’s not your job. Betty doesn’t care about you so why – why should you care about her? Why should you even be bothered?

 

“Veronica, please, can you like, um, Skype me from the waiting room, or something, please I just need to see her, you don’t understand, I can’t be there right now, so–”

 

“I couldn’t see her,” you say, feeling vaguely like you ought to be popping gum over the phone, or something. “They don’t let you in. Not family, or whatever.” Like you don’t care. Like the thought of Betty dying isn’t causing you to break in two. Like you can’t feel your heart squeezing with every moment that you don’t _know_.

 

“Veronica.”

 

“Jughead.”

 

“Veronica, _please_.”

You sigh. “You’re asking me to face her and tell her I’m her emergency contact and that I came, because I–” A pause while you close your eyes and try to steady your breathing. “I can’t, Jughead.”

 

“You can, and you will,” he says, and his voice has gone all scratchy and hard. Like he’s about to cry. For some reason, you can’t even be bothered. “If she dies – if she dies, Veronica, I will never forgive you.”

 

“Do you think I _care_ , Jughead, what you think of me?” Your laugh is hard, bruised, wrong, awkward, off kilt. “Do you think I ever thought you’d forgive me? I knew, Jughead, that everyone would take Betty’s side. I _knew._ My life, that life, was torn to shreds. I have a new one now, one that doesn’t have Jughead-sized holes.”

 

Silence.

 

“I don’t care anymore, Jughead. I cared when she never responded to my voicemails. I cared when you ignored my texts. I cared when even _Archie_ iced me out.” Your breathing is shallow, hard, and you’re close to tears. “I cared a long time ago, and I got radio silence in return. So if you think I want your fucking forgiveness, you thought wrong.”

 

“Veronica–”

 

“I’m not going to the waiting room.”

 

/

 

You dream about meeting Veronica, in a painkiller-induced fantasy.

 

/

 

You go home and stare at the wall. You order Chinese take out and will yourself not to cry and watch Voltron because it’s a kid’s show and it’s happy. You float through the endless rooms of your apartment, scream into your pillow. The tears stop threatening to come.

 

Nothing happens.

 

It hits ten at night and nothing happens. Jughead doesn’t call. Cheryl doesn’t call. Archie doesn’t even bother. No one calls. You think about Betty. You eat another potsticker instead.

 

You’re halfway through your third cup of black tea and your second of coffee (alternating, of course), when your phone buzzes. You have half a mind to throw it out the window. You pick up, instead, check the caller ID. _Cheryl Blossom._ You answer, despite your better judgement.

 

“Veronica,” says Cheryl, patient and slow. “If you don’t see Betty now–”

 

You close your eyes. You’re made of nerves and caffeine and almost-tears and the lump in your throat isn’t helping. You don’t even know what Cheryl’s going to threaten you with, and you don’t even care. All you know is Betty’s dying and you don’t know what to do, otherwise. “Okay, okay.”

 

“Really?” she sounds shocked. “I thought I’d have to mention–”

 

“OKAY,” you yell a little louder, unsure of what she has on you and suddenly certain you don’t want to know and squeeze your eyes shut. “I’m going, I’m going.”

 

“You better, asshole.”

 

“Thanks, Blossom.”

 

“Anytime, babe.”

 

/

 

When you wake up, Veronica’s holding two thermoses and her phone. She looks at you, briefly, and her phone clatters to the floor and your head is ringing and you say, dazedly, “is this a dream?”

 

/

 

It isn’t a dream.

 

They’d let you in about two hours ago, when they said she was stable. “Hi, Betty,” you say, softly, lifting your phone and not even checking for cracks. You’re too busy watching her, watching and memorizing the softness around her eyes.

 

She giggles.

 

That’s right – _giggles._ Suddenly, you can’t breathe. All you can think about is how she used to smile, how she never smiles anymore, how she never smiles for you and now – and now she’s laughing.

 

“Hi,” you repeat kind of dumbly. In shock.

 

“I missed you,” says Betty, and your mind goes blank. “I dreamed that we met again for the first time.” She scrunches up her nose, smiles. “Do you remember?”

 

You can’t breathe. “God, Betty,” you say, thickly, “you can’t just _say_ things like that.” A pause. She looks confused and all you can do is try to remember how to breathe. In. Out. “Are you trying to kill me, or what?”

 

She blinks. “Or what.” Matter of fact. Calm. Her hair’s all tangled in the pillow and there’s a bandaid on her nose, cheek, chin, forehead. All patched up. In. You’re not supposed to be tucking this information away, that her forehead creases when she smiles, that her eyes glow, because you didn’t before. Out.

 

You’re not supposed to care. In. Out. God, you’re not supposed to be storing anything because you’re supposed to be over Betty and this stupid thing, because your relationship is over so what does it matter – what’s Betty going to say when she’s off pain killers and realizes –

 

“I brought you some hot chocolate,” you say instead, and hold up a thermos. “I don’t know if you’re allowed to drink it yet, but it should stay warm for a couple more hours. I don’t know. I guess I can go home and remake it if it gets cold or something.”

 

“Don’t go.” She sighs, dreamy. “Even if it gets cold. Don’t go. You were gone for so long.”

 

Your laugh is a bit mangled. “Betty–”

 

“Don’t go.”

 

You want to tell her that you _can’t,_ that everything hurts and you can’t figure out how to breathe or anything. God. She’s the one who’s in the hospital, and you can barely make it through visiting her.

 

“I won’t. I’m right here, okay?” you say, instead.

 

“Okay,” she says, and her eyes flutter shut.

 

/

 

When you wake up, you wake up decidedly _not_ in the hospital. You’re in a bed, and it’s soft, warm. Smells like flowers. Like – well, kind of like Veronica’s shampoo. You shut your eyes, and slowly, your memory pieces itself back together.

  
About how she refused to let them take you home. How you’d agreed. How she’d brought you here, to her own apartment.

 

You close your eyes, sigh, mentally scolding yourself. You know exactly why she showed up, too, and for some reason, that makes it sting more. It’s as if you’d wanted this, and you didn’t. Don’t. You have to remember that.

 

As you turn over, still unwilling to get up – everything aches – you open your eyes again, noticing a thermos. There’s a note, too. Only Veronica, you think, smiling, then catch yourself. You aren’t supposed to care about Veronica anymore, you chide yourself. She doesn’t care about you.

 

And yet.

 

 _Betty,_ the note reads, _I’m not exactly sure how you, as an un-drugged person, will react to all this. Apparently, you got away with light injury, or something. Clean breaks, and stuff like that. A couple bruised ribs. I mean, you’ve probably noticed your arm is in a cast._

 

You hadn’t, actually, but now that she’d mentioned it, you can feel the plaster. _Oh_.

 

_Anyways. I had to go to work (sorry), so I left you some hot chocolate, because I remember you liking it. Cheers, Veronica._

 

That’s all. Despite your better judgement, you take the thermos and have a sip, then blink, surprised. It’s your favorite brand, prepared the way you’d liked it when you’d been dating. Funny, you think, that she’d remember that. You haven’t had it since the break-up.

 

Now that you drink it, you can’t remember why.

 

You try sit up a little better, and notice the view. Outside Veronica’s window, New York stretches, cast in warm sunlight. It’s most definitely a nice apartment. Much nicer than your own, in fact.

 

It’s so soft here. Everything is so calm. You almost want to fall back asleep, pretend like the last two years were nothing, like this was nothing. Almost. Regardless, you do find yourself drifting off, eyelids too heavy to keep open.

 

You wake up to the sound of a door clicking open. It’s Veronica, and when you check the alarm clock by her nightstand, it’s also three in the afternoon. “Hey,” she says, and her voice is so gentle, something breaks inside of you.

 

She’s looking at you in a way that she hasn’t in years. Like you’re hers again. Like – like everything hasn’t happened and you’re back in the picture-perfect life with the girl you love. _Loved_.

 

 _I loved you_.

 

Everything’s so wrong, here, and it hits you in this moment. The fact that she’s standing there, trying not to tread too heavily, as if whatever moment of peace is about to shatter. You close your eyes. There’s nothing here, not like the way you wanted it to be.

 

You’re not the same. She’s not the same.

 

She doesn’t love you. You don’t know why she brought you here, maybe out of some apology, but you know this. You know it with certainty. You want to be the girl that blushes every time she winks at you.

 

You want this to be like before.

 

But it isn’t. You aren’t.

 

“Hey,” you say, but it comes out hard. “You know, I could have just stayed in my own apartment.” Your tone feels icy, wrong, even. You can’t stop yourself, though. It’s too much. She can’t do this to you, to hurt you and then give you hope, and, eventually, hurt you again.

 

Pause. Veronica shifts, eyebrows lifting. She’s surprised. For some reason, that fuels your anger. You’d wanted, just a couple hours ago, the same thing she’d held in her expression. But you aren’t _hers._ You’re your own.

 

“Betty–” it comes out just as wrong as your own voice.

 

You don’t even respond, just sit up a little better. You heart aches. You want to turn over and cry in her arms. You aren’t hers, you remember yourself. “I thought you were better than this,” you say, the accusation clear in your voice. The disappointment. _I thought we were better than this._

 

“Than what,” she says, softness disappearing from her face. Pulling her guard up. “Than trying to make sure you were okay? After you – you _left_ me?” She gestures at herself, and you frown.

 

“I’m sorry, Veronica,” you say, trying to keep your voice civil, but it cracks when you say her name. “but you manipulated me.” A pause, while you try to explain. You want to explain why you can’t do this. “Under the influence. You – you used to be better than that, and you can’t call that – you can’t _justify_ that. I’m sorry.” You aren’t really sorry; what you’re sorry for is missing the bed, for missing her.

 

For wanting to kiss her.

 

Her eyes darken. “And what do you call – this, Betty? The fact I was the one who you made your emergency contact. The fact that, I, of all your friends, was dumped on you when you were hit by a _fucking car,_ Betts. How do you want to explain that one?”

 

What hurts most, what drives a sharp pain into your heart, is the nickname. _Betts_. “Really, Veronica? You up and left me, you forgot everything, and suddenly this is all my fault? That I nearly died?” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t –

 

“Really,” says Veronica. “Like you tried, in those last few months. Like you refused to come to me on breaks. Refused to come to New York. Like you lied whenever I wanted to go out, said you had plans when I knew–” her voice breaks “–I knew that you didn’t and I _let_ you, because I wanted it to be – I wanted you to be–” She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. “And you just never stop, do you? Hurting me?”

 

You want to cry. _I couldn’t see you,_ you think, the lie fresh on your tongue. You don’t know why you never wanted to see her. You were going to propose – you were going to make it all better, to try again, why can’t she see that?

 

“You want me to explain a _mistake_ to you, that I left you as my emergency contact?” A pause. “I – Veronica – I can’t, I’m sorry. I can’t.” She frowns at you, like it’s not good enough, and you feel something snap inside of you. “I’m not good enough, am I? I was never enough, was I?” This, you say bitterly. You know you’re provoking her. You know what her answer will be.

 

Veronica shifts, crossing her arms. You read once that people did that to protect their most vulnerable place, their heart. You aren’t sure where. She laughs hollowly. “No,” she says, quietly. “I guess you weren’t. I wouldn’t have forgotten our anniversary if you were worth it.”

 

A pause, where you try to remember how to breathe. “I was going to propose,” you say, and then resist the urge pop your hand over your mouth. Words tumble out, cruel and harsh and wrong. You can’t stop them. You don’t even bother to. “I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad I never got the chance to marry a coward and a liar.”

 

“I’m glad you didn’t either,” says Veronica. “I thought you knew that I don’t care anymore, Betty. I don’t want this, I don’t want _you._  I never did.”

 

Your breath hitches as she says it, but she doesn’t stop. “We were over two years ago. Stop. Stop trying to relive it. I don’t care that you were – that we were about to – I just – I just don’t care, Betty. The whole thing, all the possible futures, are over. If you don’t want to be here, if you don’t want my help, then–” she pauses to take a shaky breath of air “–then get out of my house.”

 

Silence.

 

“Fine.”

 

You want to scream at her. You want to tell her she’s a liar, that she’s loved you and that you were something to her, once. You want to shake her. Most of all, though, you want to ask if she would have said yes, if you’d proposed instead of ending your relationship.

 

In this moment, the answer is abundantly clear.

 

No, she would have said. No.

 

“I’m glad you finally got over yourself,” you say, as you climb out of her bed. Everything seems colder to you, now that she’s standing there, now that she’s said that. “Stop trying so hard, Veronica. You already have everything.”

 

You can’t breathe.

 

 _I love her_ , you think, in a moment of clarity, trying not to cry. You don’t do a very good job of it – you break down in the taxi, shoulders heaving. The driver turns to look at you worriedly, but you can’t stop.

 

In a way, it’s the cliche end to what was a cliche romance.


	3. all these rumors, they have big teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we are all reminded that veronica is famous

_https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Veronica_Lodge_

 

 _Veronica Lodge is an American fashion model. Lodge first obtained a contract at nineteen, though she declined it for “personal reasons,” instead deciding to work part-time during breaks in the school year. When pressed in an interview, she admitted she wanted to finish college and earn a degree. Only a year after Lodge started working as a model full-time, she appeared on her first_ _Vogue_ _cover. She is known to be outspoken about social justice issues._

 

_Contents_

 

 _1\. Early Life_  
_2\. Career_  
_3\. Initial Career Path_  
_4\. Modelling_  
_5\. Personal Life_  
_5.1. Activism_  
_6.  Awards and Nominations_  
_7\. References_  
_8\. External Links_

  

_Early Life_

 

 _Veronica Lodge was born and raised in New York to business-owners_ _Hiram Lodge_ _and_ _Hermione Lodge_ _. She is an only child. Lodge attended_ _Twyst School For Girls_ _and was captain of the debate team and the cheerleading team. She received a full scholarship to Riverdale University, where her relationship with __Elizabeth “Betty” Cooper_ _would evolve. A few months after Lodge’s twenty first birthday,_ _Hiram Lodge_ _died in a car accident, which the model has told interviewers was what pushed her to do something she loved because “life is too short.”_ _She would then return to New York to pursue modeling._

 

You stare at the screen, quiet, unsure how to feel that your name is in Veronica’s Wikipedia page. Quickly, you press command and f and type _Cooper_ into the search bar. There’s a total of three results.

 

_Lodge, though relatively quiet about her relationship with Cooper on Instagram, often posted pictures of the two on Snapchat. It became famous throughout fans during Lodge’s rise to popularity that she would do so whenever the two were in the same place. After Cooper and Lodge broke up, however –_

 

You press enter to find the next time you’re mentioned, suddenly unwilling to read anything about the end of your relationship. God, this is all your fault, you think, trying to breathe. _I’m glad I never got the chance to marry a coward and a liar._ Are you? You don’t know anymore, all you can think is that she’s gone and it’s your fault.

 

You pause to scan the next section where your name is highlighted.

 

_Personal Life_

 

 _The model was in a relationship with Elizabeth “Betty” Cooper until two years ago._ _The pair were an instant hit among fans and Lodge quickly took to correcting people about her sexuality and becoming outspoken about LGBT issues. “I don’t want to be erased just because I’m dating a girl. I love her, I really do, but her existence in my life isn’t an excuse for someone to ‘forget’ I’m bisexual,” said the model in a particularly famous interview._

 

You pause. You hadn’t even seen this interview – there had been so many when you’d been dating, and you’re sure there still are just as many, but that doesn’t matter. You suddenly can’t breathe. _I love her, I really do._

 

Your eyes squeeze shut and you will yourself not to cry. _I don’t want this, I don’t want you. I never did._ The liar, you think, almost numb, unsure if this is good or bad. She loved you; at least you know that for sure.

 

She loved you.

  
Past tense.

 

/

 

You deal with crippling heartbreak the way you deal with most of your problems – shopping.

 

You call Cheryl, who you know is the in the area because the Pussycats have a concert in a week. She picks up on the third ring. “Don’t tell me, Lodge,” she says boredly. “You screwed up with your girlfriend, again, and you want to go shopping.”

 

You pause. “Yes?”

 

“Are you paying, or do I have to use my wealthy, famous wife’s credit card?” She emphasizes _wife,_ and suddenly you can’t take her drawling tone seriously. Despite yourself, you smile.

 

“You’re paying.”

 

A pause, and then a huff. You almost expect her to say no – you haven’t done this in years. The last time you’d done it was in college, when your dad died. Then, Cheryl sighs and says, “You owe me, Lodge.”

 

“I do,” you say, and mean it.

 

The two of you meet at the mall. You’ve been in the spotlight for long enough to know that the media notices when girls enter and leave your apartment, just like they care about what you’re wearing. Everything you do now _matters._

 

She’s scrolling through her phone when you approached her. “You know, Ronnie,” she says, sickly sweet and your stomach drops because she knows something, “I didn’t realize your whole Betty situation was, like, _this_ bad.”

 

She holds out her phone to you, and you scan the screen. It’s a tweet.

 

 **@celebcentral** is @veronicalodge back together with her ex, now-reporter Betty Cooper?

 

It has something like ten thousand retweets. Suddenly, you feel a bit faint. “There’s more,” says Cheryl, and her voice has changed. She’s scanning your face, like she’s worried. Her tone is soft, apologetic. “There’s a picture.”

 

You scroll down. There is a picture – it’s blurry, but it’s distinctly of Betty, blonde hair pulled back and in the shirt you’d worn just a couple days prior, the one this account had posted as part of a “chic spring outfit.” Her expression in the photo hard to make out, but you know it isn’t happy.

 

You can remember the way her face had contorted during the fight. _I don’t want this, I don’t want you. I never did._

 

“That’s my shirt,” you say dumbly.

 

Cheryl sighs dramatically. “Ronnie, darling, I don’t think shopping is going to fix this.” She’s rolling her eyes, but her tone is soft, worried. You wonder why you don’t talk to Cheryl more – she’s been a good friend. She _is_ a good friend. “How about we go to that restaurant that my wife, Josie, has been raving about all week?”

 

“I know who your wife is,” is all you can think of to say.

 

Luckily for you, she takes that as a yes.

 

/

 

 **@monetslillies** omg my ship!!! @bettscooper @veronicalodge @veronicafreckles

 **@veronicafreckles** im LIVING @monetslillies

 

 **@vangoghstars** listen, you guys...these are real people  & we need to respect their space! we don’t even know the whole story!

 

 **@inspiringveronica** i cant decide whether or not to celebrate the rep or be sad veronica’s not single anymore

 

/

 

You wake up to two things. One, a headache, and two, more than ten thousand messages on twitter, which is new. When you scroll through your notifications, all of them have the same exact message: _are Veronica Lodge and Betty Cooper getting back together?_

 

You actually remember this. You remember what it was like to be pulled into a whirlwind romance with on-the-rise Veronica Lodge. You remember being both loved and, occasionally, disliked.

 

You also remember how much you hated all the attention.

 

It makes you feel constricted, unable to breathe. You take in a deep, shaky breath, trying to remind yourself that it’s okay, that Veronica will sort this out, and then you stop, suddenly nervous.

 

You aren’t sure if you want Veronica to sort this out. You hate the attention, yes, it makes you feel sticky and gross and terrible, but the idea of being close to Veronica again – even after everything – makes your heart ache. Especially because you know that you can’t have it, that she’ll shut it down before it grows bigger, that it’s your fault that nothing happened because you provoked her, you let her go –

 

You always seem to let her go.

 

/

 

You shift on camera, trying to force a smile. “She recently got into an accident,” you explain, “since she’s new to the city and that’s a rough way to get an introduction to New York, I thought I should, um, be a bit more hospitable.”

 

The reporter frowns. “Are you denying a relationship to Betty Cooper?”

 

You nod. “We’re just friends – we were friends before our relationship, as well. I–” You pause, remembering your fight. The lie feels sticky on your tongue, awkward and wrong. The reporter doesn’t notice, just keeps frowning. You know she doesn’t want to hear this. She wants something juicy.

 

Something like spite settles in your stomach. _You used to be better than that._ “She wasn’t very agreeable, actually,” you laugh, trying to seem aloof. “We probably won’t be seeing each other again. She’s changed – and I’ve moved on. You know how it is, right?”

 

A pause. The reporter sees her entrance and takes it. “Would you say this is out of jealousy with any other relationships you might have?”

 

“Actually,” you say, narrowing your eyes, “I recently attended Cheryl Blossom and Josie McCoy’s wedding – you know, the singer? I think she thought they wouldn’t invite me. You know, she’s been very petty about all this – I’ve tried to be kind, but you know how it is.”

 

The reporter nods reassuringly. _I don’t want this, I don’t want you. I never did._ The words echo in your head again, and it takes all your resolve not to wince. You want her back, you want to hold Betty Cooper and apologize. Instead, you say, “I don’t think she ever got over me. Crazy exes, am I right?”

 

/

 

“Betty, you have to see this.”

 

Archie sits across from you at a cute cafe near your apartment, looking tired. You glance up from your phone, from your dozens and dozens of messages on twitter. #beronica is trending right now.

 

However, you also know that he took a red-eye to meet his girlfriend, Val, and watch her show. He’s informed you that he hasn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours, but he’s here, at the cafe, to see you. You haven’t seen each other in years; he was closer to Veronica, after all, but he never took her side.

 

You don’t understand it. Instead of asking, you say, “See what?”

 

He shoves his phone at you. It’s a video of Veronica and a reporter. She’s smiling, but her expression is cold. She’s beautiful, though – you can’t deny how breathless it makes you, watching her look at the camera like you’re _nothing,_ like all of this is nothing. Like she’s above it all.

 

Until, of course, she starts to speak.

 

“I don’t think she ever got over me. Crazy exes, am I right?” says Veronica over the speaker of Archie’s phone. When you glance up, he’s frowning at you, like he’s trying to figure you out. You can’t breathe.

 

“I–”

 

“Betty–”

 

“I’m sorry Archie, I know that you came out of your way to say hello, but I have to leave. Um. Right now. Immediately.”

 

“Betty–”

 

“Immediately,” you repeat faintly, and grab your purse and your phone. “I’m so sorry.”

 

/

 

You go home and cry.

 

You aren’t sure what else to do, because it hits you in the gut – you shouldn’t have given that interview, if she saw that – God, sometimes you hate being famous. Hate that you can be petty like this and get away with it. _You’re wrong, Cheryl_ , you think grimly, _I do get off scot-free_. And you shouldn’t.

 

You should apologize.

 

But you _can’t_ – Betty made it clear she doesn’t want to see you again. You made it clear that you were over. You don’t get another chance; your last chance was the accident. It’s over with Betty, and you know that.

 

As you cry into your pillow, which still smells vaguely of Betty, your phone starts to buzz. The screen flashes the caller ID: _Jughead Jones._

 

His first words over speakerphone are: “Veronica,” in a tired voice. He doesn’t need to explain himself. Your response is to flop over and let out a depressed moan. You don’t even know what to do.

 

“Veronica,” he says again, and you close your eyes.

 

You can’t listen to him right now. Can’t listen to this. It’s over for you and Betty – this much is clear. You have to move on. You tap the _end call_ button and your phone screen shutters to black.

 

/

 

You sit and stare at the wall of your dusty, dingy, one-room apartment and listen to your neighbors partying above you. You can’t decide what’s more depressing: this, this life you’re living, or the fact that you aren’t even trying to fix it. You used to care. Have dreams. You were going to run a newspaper and win awards and –

 

And marry Veronica.

 

You used to fantasize about marrying Veronica. _Crazy exes, am I right?_

 

God, how did you end up like this? The crazy ex on social media, clamoring for attention because you want some magazine to snap another picture and watch what she says, watch her tear you inside out again and again and again because you still think that she won’t do it next time –

 

 _I love her, I really do_.

 

You place your head in your hands and try not to cry. _I love her, I really do_. You screw up your face, take shallow breaths, try to control your already racing heart because get it together, Cooper, she isn’t coming back –

 

_I love her I love her I love her I love her I love_

 

You stand up and slam your first onto the coffee table next to you and the books on it jump and the real-ness, the pain of flesh colliding with glass enough to shake you shocks you because this life is real and Veronica doesn’t love you anymore and you’re lost, oh god you’re lost you have nowhere to go or knowledge of what to do –

 

You’re lost.

 

You stare at your fist and your coffee table, but neither bear evidence of what you just did. The table is intact, unbroken. All that’s there is just the ghost of pain in your hand and then numbness, like it was never there in the first place. You wonder, briefly, if you ever actually wanted to marry Veronica, or if it was because you wanted to go back to the first, perfect months of your relationship.

 

You don’t know.

 

Your phone rings and you jump, flexing your fingers, only somewhat surprised as they twinge in pain, as you look around, trying to figure out where the noise is coming from. You walk over to your armchair, turn over the cushions, but it’s not there, and it’s still ringing, so you check your bag, too, trying to feel for a buzz, and then –

 

“Hey, Betty,” says a familiar voice over the line.

 

You sniffle. “Hey, Archie.”

 

“Uh, B, so like, Val’s practicing and you took the news kind of hard, so like, are you okay, man?” He sounds like he doesn’t know what to say. You stifle a bitter laugh – Archie has never known what to say.

 

“Um, yeah?” you say, though it sounds high-pitched and kind of watery. You pace as he takes in a breath over the receiver like he knows you’re lying. Like he just saw your sudden explosion and now he doesn’t know how to handle it.

 

“So, um, drinks? Or something? Like, uh, dinner. Yeah, dinner. Because, uh, I didn’t really get to see you over lunch.”

 

“Um,” you say, and try to force a smile. “Like a date? Archie, I hate to tell you this, but – you know I’m a lesbian, right?”

 

“Betty, Jesus, I have a girlfriend, of course I know–”

 

“I’m joking, calm down.” You smile and suddenly you feel like not-quite-out freshman Betty Cooper, who thought she liked Archie and was simultaneously excited and upset when she’d been asked out. You look down and fight the urge to laugh. “That sounds, um, really great. Thank you, Archie. So, uh, when? And like, where?”

 

“Yeah, there’s this restaurant, I’ll text you the details, how about eight?”

 

“Like, tonight? Like, tonight tonight?”

 

“I mean, it is six, so–”

 

You kind of want to scream. _God, Valerie_ , you think, how do you manage _this?_ “Okay, okay. I’ll be there.”

 

“Don’t stand me up this time, Cooper,” he says, and you laugh this time, for real. “I haven’t forgotten freshman year.”

 

“That doesn’t count – you intended to bring _two_ girls. Honestly, I was just doing Ver – um, her, a favor.” You can’t even say Veronica’s name aloud anymore, and the bubbly mood that has just set in disappears.

 

“Betty–”

 

“See you at eight, Archie,” you say, and hang up.

 

/

 

Jughead calls you at least four more times. You know because you count the little notifications pile up – _Missed Call: Jughead Jones (4),_ until it’s five missed calls, and then six, seven, and you finally get annoyed and pick up.

 

“The fuck?” is all he says this time. “What the actual fuck, Veronica.”

 

You laugh. “This is rich, coming from you. Oh, high and mighty Jughead, free of all blame. What ever am I to do? Please tell me, being of such a pure soul.” He starts to talk, and you _duh-duh-duh_ him until he shuts up again.

 

“This is all your fault, asshole,” you say, voice cold and measured, spitting each word slowly, like you don’t trust yourself to say it any faster. “Stop calling me and get a life.”

 

“I can’t do that, I, I mean– we need to, y’know– it’s, it’s just–” he pauses, sighs, and his voice comes out as cold as yours when he regains his breath “–did you even love her, Veronica, seriously?”

 

You sit up straight and stare daggers at the wall, trying to convey to the universe what an _asshole_ Jughead Jones is. Before you speak, you let out a mangled laugh. “What the fuck, Jughead, what do you think? _‘Oh, Veronica, do you love Betty?’_ I don’t know, Jughead, did I? _Do_ I?”

  
“Well, I mean– do you even _think_ about Betty any time you act? Did you ever consider what you did to her? Like, come on Veronica, don’t pretend you’re so innocent in this whole thing. Like it wasn’t your fault.”

 

“And it wasn’t hers?”

 

“I mean–”

 

“Fuck off, Jughead, you know what?” You pause to mimic him in a high voice. _“‘Did you even love her, Veronica?’”_ Your laugh ends up being rough, off-kilter. Like you forgot to breathe beforehand. “God, you know what? I don’t need to explain myself to you.”  
  
“Because you can’t.”

 

There’s silence. You don’t know how to respond. You don’t know how to tell him that you love her so much it’s eating you alive, that she started it this time, that you went back for her and you tried to help her and all she did was take a knife and stab you in the back because _she’s_ the one who’s moved on, Jesus Christ why can’t he see that, why is he even trying –

 

No, you don’t know what to say to that. You let the silence stretch thin and then you say, “Whatever” and hang up.

 

/

 

Archie’s already in a booth when you arrive and he waves you over. “I ordered for you,” he says. “Salad and a strawberry milkshake, right?” He glances at you for confirmation, as if he’s asking if he did it right this time.

 

It strikes you for the first time how much you’ve changed since college. You don’t tell him you don’t drink milkshakes anymore. “Um, yeah,” you lie, forcing a smile. “Thanks.”

 

“So, uh,” he says, and he looks like he’s going to bring up Veronica. You silently dare him to – come on, Archie – and you watch as he shifts in his seat. He brings a hand up to run through his hair. “How’s reporting?”

 

You blink. “Oh, good. I’m mostly doing, you know, bagel runs and stuff–” you roll your eyes ”–but I think if I keep working, I’ll eventually get to do some real stories. How’s music going for you?”

 

You keep going like this – boring, simple small talk. He asks you about your life, you ask him about his. It’s what your lunch should have been. You used to like this, this neutral conversation about nothing in particular, but for some reason his passivity gets under your skin. It’s like he doesn’t care about how things are going with Veronica. Went. Went with Veronica.

 

There’s silence as the waiter brings your food – a salad and a milkshake – and his – a cheeseburger. He offers you some fries wordlessly and you shake you head. “You know, Archie,” you say, voice soft, “you can just ask about Veronica.”

 

He eyes you like it’s a trap.

 

“What am I going to do? Bite your head off?” You smile as you take a bite off your fork.

 

“I mean–” he pauses to think. “I mean, yeah.” He laughs. “I mean, you were scary in freshman year, right before we almost dated. I think I was the only one scared of you, but I mean, hey. You’re scary, Betts.”

 

You cock your head. “Thanks, I think.”

 

He sighs. “Seriously, though, you and Veronica. I mean, I just don’t get it. You two were perfect for each other. Soulmates, or some shit. I don’t know. Like, really, really perfect for each other.”

 

Your laugh comes out warbled. “When has Veronica been good to me?”

 

He pauses. “Sounds like she tried to take care of you when you had that accident.”

 

You stiffen, take another bite of your fork. “You mean, when she kidnapped me.”

 

“She had your consent.”

 

“I was drugged.”

 

“At least she tried, Betty.”

 

“Did you even _listen_ to her last interview? ‘Crazy exes’ and all that? I mean, Archie, come on.”

 

He watches you, slowly and carefully. He is afraid of you; it shows in his face as he takes a bite of his cheeseburger. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m just saying, you were kind of hostile, right?”

 

“How do you even know this?” You know Val probably told him, because Josie somehow knew, only because Cheryl probably knew, because Veronica probably told Cheryl. It feels taboo, though, like it was your secret with her. You do feel guilty, though, because he’s right. You were awful, and you haven’t been trying. You just wanted to push Veronica away and blame her. You sigh, and fold your hands. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. We’re over, Archie.”

 

Archie runs a hand through his hair again. “I mean, I don’t think so. Val and I had a rough start, remember? Just, I don’t know – don’t kill me or anything, but maybe apologize?”

 

You frown. “Maybe.”

 

You don’t talk about Veronica after that.

 

/

 

 _Incoming call: Betty Cooper_.

 

/

 

“Hello?” you say, adjusting your phone as if you can’t believe Betty’s calling you. It doesn’t seem right, or real. Like you’re dreaming.

 

Betty’s quiet over the phone, and for a moment you aren’t sure it’s her, because she’s so silent. You can’t even hear her breathing, just like she’s holding her breath. Finally, right as you’re about to hang up – butt dial, you think a little sadly – she says, “Veronica.”

 

“This is she.” Your tone is clipped, cold. You want to tell her, I’m sorry and I love you, please come back to me, but you know the answer by now. You can’t ask her to hold you again. You can’t hold her again. All you can do is wait to hear what she says.

 

“While,” she pauses, voice stiff, “While I’m not okay with your last interview, which yes, I did watch, I do agree that I may have been a little hostile last time we spoke.” You remember the fight at your apartment, her shallow breathing, the way she looked at you as if you didn’t exist, and sigh.

 

“So was I,” you offer to her – not a lot, not an apology, not an excuse, but something. The start of something.

 

“I want to make it up to you,” she says, ignoring your last statement. “Dinner, maybe?”

 

A date, you think, and your heart pounds. God, it sounds like she’s asking you on a date. “I. Um, yes, yes that sounds good,” you say and your voice breaks, suddenly warm and rushed instead of cold and you cough to retain your previous tone. “When are you free?”

 

“Tomorrow evening? You can pick the restaurant.”

 

You pause. You have a meeting then, but you can reschedule. “Would you like somewhere private, or a nice restaurant, where the press may or may not see us?” You frown. “I mean, all the locations that I would suggest might be booked, but they might make an exception–”

 

“Veronica,” she says, a hint of a smile in her voice and your heart breaks, just a little bit. “I trust you.”

 

_I trust you._

 

“It’s a date,” you say. “I’ll text you the details.” You end the call before she can take it back, before she mentions it isn’t a date and you’re over and this is just an official end to what has gone on for too long, that’s all.

 

It doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that you have a dinner with Betty Cooper and a chance to see her, even if it’s for the last time.


	4. but honey i see you wherever i go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry for the wait i dont even have an excuse im terrible

You take her out to lunch instead.

 

Betty Cooper sits across the table from you in a striped black and white shirt and blue skinny jeans, drumming her fingers anxiously. Her arm is still in a sling. You know all this because you’ve been staring at her; you’ve been staring at her since she got here and now, if she disappeared, you could list every detail of her like you’ve memorized them.

 

You have. Memorized them, you mean.

 

She smiles awkwardly across the table and flexes her hand abruptly. Her hair is up in a perfect ponytail, slicked back with gel. “So, Veronica,” she says, and glances outside like she can’t bring herself to look you in the eyes.

 

Her expression is mildly disinterested, annoyed, even, when you try to catch her eyes.

 

Your stomach sinks. She’s only a couple feet away – if you reached out, you could touch her, and God, every inch of you is burning to touch her,  _ aching, _ but it feels like she’s miles and miles away.

 

“I wanted to apologize,” you blurt. “I’ve, um,” a pause, while you try to remember what you were going to say, and while her head swivels to regard you more closely, “I’ve said some hurtful things. A lot, actually.” You laugh a fake, high-pitched laugh that you’ve perfected over the last couple of years and she watches you with slight confusion. “So, I wanted to apologize.”   
  
Betty nods, then purses her lips. “Me too, you know,” she says, and reaches over, and you freeze. Does she want to hold your hand? You stare at it, unsure of whether or not to touch it, heart racing, and she frowns and pulls it away.

 

You huff, suddenly disappointed in yourself. “I mean,” you say, “you did some things, and I’m not going to say they didn’t hurt, but I–”

 

“Veronica,” she says, voice suddenly soft. “If we’re ever going to be–” she pauses, like she’s searching for the right word, like she doesn’t want to say  _ girlfriends, _ “–anything, we have to move on. I understand, you know. We both did hurtful things.”

 

“It’s just–”

 

“Veronica,” she says, amusement clear in her voice, and you blink up at her. “Veronica,” she repeats softer, like she likes the sound of your name. You can’t lie – you do, too, you like the way she says it with a hint of a smile, like oh, Veronica, there she goes again. You like her tone, its gentle nature. “We’ve gotten past some – uh, much  _ larger _ bumps in our relationships.”

 

You don’t know how to respond to that one – in your opinion, this is the largest “bump.” After all, all those other times, you were able to say exactly how you felt.

 

“Um,” you say instead, suddenly feeling awkward, because you can’t say anything you want to. “What are you thinking of ordering?”

 

The moment is broken and you swear her face falls for a moment, and you want to take her cheeks in your palms and  _ tell her, _ tell her that you still love her, but her smile is back again, careful and well-placed, and maybe you just imagined it. “Hm,” she says, scanning the menu. “What’s good?”

 

“I think you’d like the linguini and clams,” you say, then regret it. You don’t want her to feel awkward – it is, after all, a slightly messy dish. “Or, um, the chicken is good, too. I don’t know. I love everything on the menu.”

 

She smiles at you, brilliant and excited and for once you’re reminded of dating Betty, of the good bits where she looked at you like the sun. “I forgot how good you are at this,” she says, under her breath, and you have to fight off a grin. “I think I’ll get the pasta.”

 

It gets awkward again, and eventually Betty excuses herself to the bathroom. You watch her retreating form, and then check your phone. You have a couple missed texts, the majority being from your manager, and one from Cheryl.

 

**cheryl blossom** (11:23 AM): hows the date going?? whens the wedding

**veronica lodge** (11:45 AM): its not a date

**cheryl blossom** (11:45 AM): good luck selling that one at ur wedding

 

Someone coughs as they slide back into their seat and you tuck your phone away to look at Betty. She smiles politely and it’s almost infuriating, how awkward this is. How fake. “Do you remember,” she says, quietly, like she doesn’t want anyone else to hear, “our first date?”

 

You do. You remember it like it was yesterday. “Oh my god,” you say, suddenly immersed in how clear the memory is. “I had this outfit all picked out, right, and then I spilled milk or something on it and I called Cheryl, and she let me borrow some of her clothes, do you remember?”

 

She raises an eyebrow. “No, you never told me,” Betty says, but it’s not accusatory, just amused. “I didn’t know you and Cheryl are the same size – I remember you looked so good, though. I was so nervous.”

 

You shake your head. “We’re not. We pulled out her tightest clothing, which was a bit big on me. Plus, she’s tall. She did not let me forget that one, and I had to ditch you to help her with a Josie date, because of it. Remember?”

 

“I was  _ so _ mad,” says Betty, tilting her head back as she laughs. “You told me Cheryl was going out on a date and you had to help her – I swear, I nearly showed up to crash the date, except you texted me about that one movie–”

 

“What was it again? I just remember it was horrible–”

 

“I don’t know, I spent half the time looking at you,” she admits and your throat goes dry. 

 

“Oh.”

 

You’re quiet again and she bites her lip. “Did I say something wrong?” she says, when the silence has grown thin and you’re about to tell her no, of course not, it’s just that I want to kiss you again –

 

And the waiter turns up with you food, along with a reporter. You sigh inwardly and you watch Betty’s shoulders tense. “Hello,” you say, picking up your fork and smiling. “Fancy meeting a  _ Tribune _ reporter here.”

  
The reporter doesn’t even look embarrassed. “Would you say this is a date,” he starts, and Betty’s frown deepens. “Or, is it a make up – how would you define your relationship?”

 

You open your mouth to speak, but Betty shoots you a  _ look _ and interjects, “You know, I think our relationship would mature much better if you left us alone.” A pause, and the reporter is about to speak again, when she adds, “I mean, would you really like to be known in the media as the reporter who ruined many, many stories just for the sake of seeing two friends eating lunch together?”

 

You’ve never seen Betty like this. Careful, balanced. As if she’s trying not to explode, as if she’s trying to avoid an explosion. Her words are sharp, but her eyes are warm and you have to admit, your mouth is suddenly dry and you shift in your seat, trying to swallow the feeling.

 

The reporter frowns. “So, would you say–”

 

“You heard what she would say. Thank you for you time,” you say, punctuated with a cold look, then signal to the waiter to put down your food.

 

Betty takes a tentative bite of her pasta while the reporter huffs away and then sighs. “Veronica,” she says, in between bites, “this is  _ so _ good. I forgot how much I love pasta.”

 

“You haven’t had any recently?” you say, tilting your head. You haven’t, either; you need to watch your weight for modelling, but occasionally, you’ll have some gluten free pasta. It takes the fun out of eating it, though, when it’s all factored into your weight.

 

She shakes her head. “No,” she says, then smiles sheepishly at you. “I’m kind of sort of super broke. Just ramen for me, basically.”

 

You can’t imagine Betty having to eat only ramen, so you say, “Really? Come over for dinner, and we can eat some other foods. If I’d known you’re only eating ramen right now–”

 

“Veronica,” she says again, and tucks a loose baby hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to do anything, it’s okay.”

 

“No,” you say, suddenly certain of one thing. You don’t want to lose Betty again, even if you can’t see her the same way. Even if she doesn’t see you the same way. “I insist.”

 

Betty blushes. “Okay,” she says, after a short pause. And then, “Thank you.”

 

/

 

**@blueandgoldnews** #beronica on a dinner date?  _ blueandgoldnewspaper.com/article/betty-... _

 

**@bironica** just when i thought #beronica was over!! @blueandgoldnews @veronicalodge

 

/

 

When you get to the doorstep of Veronica’s apartment, you have to steel yourself not to leave. You almost do leave, regardless, because when you see her door all you can think about is your fight. You wish you hadn’t said the things to her that you had, and you’re amazed she’s actually forgiven you.

 

All of a sudden, you can’t breathe. You can’t bring yourself to knock. It’s hard to, with the knowledge that she’ll open the door and look–look like  _ Veronica _ and you’ll resort to freshman-year-Betty-Cooper.

 

Because, well, at this point, you’d say there’s no denying your crush. If it’s really a crush. You’ve been hoping that it was just some left-over feelings from a messy end to your relationship, but the way she looked at you over lunch has you certain that these feelings aren’t going away.

 

You  _ know _ they’re not going away, and so, you decide, steeling yourself, all you have left is to bask it what’s left of you and Veronica, so you gather yourself and knock.

 

She answers the door almost immediately, as if she’s been waiting. “Hi,” she says, and almost at once you forget how to speak.

 

It’s not like Veronica looks out of the normal–in fact, she looks like just a regular person, as opposed to lunch, where she looked like the model (and celebrity) she is. No, Veronica’s in pale pink sweatpants and a tank top, hair in a bun. She looks a little surprised, too, as if you’re early, or maybe–maybe she thought you weren’t coming.

 

You manage to cough out, “Hi” because she looks just like the Veronica you remember, like the Veronica you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. Her smile is so warm and every inch of you has this desire to reach out and touch her, even you know you can’t.

 

“So, um,” says Veronica, shifting in the doorway. “You can um, come in. Sorry about the press, everyone got very excited and–”

 

“It was on purpose, wasn’t it,” you say, before you can stop yourself. “The public restaurant.”

 

Veronica blinks, then sighs. “Betts, I’m sor–”

 

You shake your head firmly and step past her, surveying her apartment. It’s just like you remember it–tidy, extravagant. You feel a little out of place in it, but push the thought away. “What’s for dinner?” you say, before Veronica can start apologizing again.

 

You aren’t really mad about the lunch date, because you kind of wanted the same thing–the attention, the rush of dating  _ the _ Veronica Lodge. It’s easier to admit that when Veronica wanted something similar, too. 

 

Well. Maybe wanted something similar. You don’t know – maybe she just wants the media to know she isn’t the villain she looked a little like in that interview. Maybe she just wants to restore her perfection in the public eye.

 

But then – why would she invite you here?

 

Veronica shifts, as if she’s thinking. It’s not truly like she’s trying to think of a restaurant, but a restaurant she wants to you eat from – you can see in her eyes it’s a calculating sort of thinking. “I don’t know, I have a few places that deliver, but we can Postmates pretty much anything,” she settles for.

 

You nod, and smile. “Honestly, V, I trust you.”

 

She looks up at you in shock and with a certain softness in her expression.

 

It makes you hopeful, the way she looks at you like she doesn’t want to ruin anything, but still wants to push it–this–farther. “I don’t care what you order,” you add, because you don’t. “I’ve pretty much eaten only ramen so everything sounds  _ so _ good right now.”

 

Veronica laughs and steps in closer. She smells like rose perfume and Veronica and you want her to wrap her arms around you so badly you’re certain she can hear your thoughts, but instead she moves past you to grab her phone, which is charging against the wall.

 

“Well,” she says, picking it up and turning it on, “There’s this taco place that’s good–”

 

“Yes,” you say before she can give you any more options. “That’s perfect. Thank you, V – you know, you don’t have to do this.”

 

Veronica shakes her head. “Betty,” she says, eyes lingering on your lips for a second longer than they should, but for a short enough time that when they snap back up to meet your eyes, you’re certain you’ve imagined it, “please. We used to be best friends.”

 

“We used to date,” you remind her, and the expression on her face changes into something unreadable. 

 

“Yes, well. That ship has sailed, wouldn’t you say?” she says, almost like she’s asking you to say, _no,_ _I still love you._ She raises an eyebrow as if she’s challenging you, _daring_ you to say no. You almost want to.

 

“Remember how we met?” you say instead, smiling. “Fighting over Archie.”

 

Veronica makes a choking noise as she types something into her phone, perfectly manicured nails clicking against the screen. “God, freshman year was such a mistake – don’t remind me. Carne asada okay with you, or do you want chicken, like you always get?”

 

You aren’t sure how she remembers, but it makes you smile regardless. “Chicken, please.”

 

“Is it too much to hope for asking you to try horchata?” 

 

You frown. “Well,” you say, pretending to consider, even though you’ve had the drink in the years that it’s been since you last dated, “I guess I could consider it, since you’re having me over for dinner.”

 

She smiles at you and your heart melts. Even though you don’t usually lie to get girls – even though you never had to pretend with Veronica, you decide to pardon yourself for this white lie, just because of her smile.

 

You wonder how you ever hated her.

 

“Okay,” she says abruptly, checking her phone again, “I ordered it–it’ll come in thirty minutes, do you want anything in the meantime?”

 

“No thank you,” you say, then pause. “You haven’t told me about your clearly flourishing career, though. How is that going?” 

 

Veronica blushes and looks down at her socks. “I mean,” she says, “It’s been really exciting, and I love it, but sometimes the spotlight is overwhelming. But – there’s this thrill to it, too. I can never be forgotten, you know?” You nod, even though you don’t. “How’s reporting?”

 

You shrug. “I’m happy to be doing it. I’m making a difference.”

 

Veronica nods, and then smiles. “Exactly the same as two years ago.”

 

You’re silent with her for a little while longer, and she scrolls through her phone. Both of you seem content to just look through social media – #beronica is trending once more – as you wait for the food.

 

“You know,” you say, “This is suspiciously like a date.”

 

Veronica laughs, though you can tell it’s a little nervous. “You can leave if you want,” she says, and though it’s lighthearted, you know she’s afraid of overstepping. She always reeks of confidence, and kindness and –

 

– and you make her  _ nervous. _

 

“I don’t want to,” you say, a little breathily, and she’s leaning in all of a sudden, and for a moment you realize you have a choice between kissing her, and  _ not _ and you swear your heart nearly leaps out of your chest. 

 

“Betty,” she says stepping further away, and you shake your head, trying to pull her closer again.

 

“After, after,” you say, and she laughs. She smells like roses and Veronica, a smell you realize you missed as you’re leaning in. Veronica steps a fraction of an inch closer and parts her lips just slightly.

 

You reach out to pull her closer by wrapping an arm around her waist and she’s about to wrap her own arms around your shoulders when –

 

When the doorbell rings. “Tacos,” says Veronica, half as an apology and half as a curse, untangling herself from your embrace and dashing towards the door of her apartment like she’s trying to get away from you.

 

Like she instantly regrets what would have happened.

 

You sigh. “Want to watch something?” says Veronica, triumphantly holding a brown paper bag.

 

“Do you keep your plates in the same place?” is your response, turning around.

 

/

 

**veronica lodge** (12:45 PM): so my date bailed for an opening to a museum…

**betty cooper** (12:54 PM): when is it?

**veronica lodge** (1:01 PM): tomorrow at seven

**betty cooper** (1:01 PM): what kind of person ditches you the day before!?

**veronica lodge** (1:03 PM): this one, apparently 

**veronica lodge** (1:05 PM): so are you free?

**betty cooper** (1:08 PM): yes, but i don’t have any dresses

**veronica lodge** (1:10 PM): you’re talking to a model, b. i can get you a dress

**veronica lodge** (1:10 PM): thank you btw <3

 

/

 

Betty doesn’t show up – you have a dress for her and everything. It’s Cheryl who steps out of the last car, with Josie, notices you Betty- (or just date-) less and tut-tuts at you. “She’s just nervous,” Cheryl says, without saying who.

 

You sigh. “I thought things were getting better.”

 

“They will,” promises Josie, who’s looking at Cheryl instead of you. “You have to tell her first, Lodge. Until then, you can hang with us.”

 

“She means, third wheel,” clarifies Cheryl unnecessarily. 

 

“Yeah, I got that, thanks,” you say, checking your phone absentmindedly.

 

/

 

**betty cooper** (3:04 AM): i’m sorry

 

/

 

**@ronnielodge** #fashionweek is fast approaching!

 

**@veronicafan132** @ronnielodge are you dating @betts.cooper????

**@starstruckberonica** @ronnielodge where is @betts.cooper did you guys stop going on dates????

**@fishcat47** guys remember to give #beronica space to figure themselves up!

 

**@starnews** is #beronica over? @ronnielodge spotted bikini clad with actor @reggiemantle this week

 

/

 

You ignore Veronica for the next few weeks – you are ashamed, but mostly, you don’t know how to face her with the knowledge that she probably has figured everything out between the two of you. Namely, how you’re still harboring unreciprocated feelings for her.

 

You don’t know what you’d say. So you just go to work and fall into a mind-numbingly boring rhythm that you find comfort in and pray for the tweets to stop coming. She seems to have moved on – from her instagram, she’s having the time of her life.

 

Jughead keeps texting you to stop stalking her, but you can’t exactly help it. Even Cheryl, occasionally, texts you to text her, but you  _ have,  _ and she’s not responding. You gave up a couple days ago.

 

She’s clearly uninterested.

 

/

 

You float through life uninterestedly. It’s clear Betty’s freaked out by your moment with her that night – serves you right for taking things too fast, you think grimly. You do  _ do  _ things, but as Cheryl points out one night, you’re doing things for the purpose of not thinking.

 

Not that Reggie seems to mind.

 

You send the tabloids off in a frenzy of trying to figure out your goal with Reggie – one day, they think you want to date him, the next day, they think you’re using him. You aren’t really sure yourself, except that he’s fun and doesn’t require you to feel or think so much.

 

You drink a little too much, talk a little too loudly, and in general, are a little too present.

 

She sends you twenty two texts.

 

You ignore all of them.

 

/

 

You don’t have close enough friends in New York to notice that something’s wrong. Jughead is too far away and too engrossed in his studies to notice. 

 

/

 

“Veronica,” says Reggie the third day you’re over at his penthouse, looking out over the balcony. “Your apartment is just as nice as this one, bro.”

 

“Don’t call me bro,” you respond disinterestedly. “Besides, the view is different. I’m sick of mine. Do you think this is a nice area? Would you recommend investing here?”

 

He frowns. “Veronica.”

 

“Not much of an answer,” you huff, pulling an oversized button-down over yourself and shivering slightly. You don’t let yourself face him – you know he’s about to tell you something that you don’t want to hear.

 

“Bro,” he says, just because he knows you hate being called ‘bro’, and as annoying as it is, you’re thankful for how normally he treats you. “I know you’re not here for me, and like, I like hot chicks, but it’s kind of lame being a booty call for a hot chick who’s clearly not over her ex.”

 

“You talked to Cheryl,” you translate for yourself, and turn to watch his expression fall from a smirk to a frown.

 

“I mean, yeah, bro, but–” It lifts back up to a smirk again when he says ‘bro.’

 

You want to tell him to stop trying to shove ‘bro’ into every sentence he possible can to annoy you. You’ve already crossed the room and are slinging your arms over him. “So,” you say carefully, looking pointedly down, “you’re saying I should leave.”

 

You watch his Adam’s apple bob – you’ve refused to kiss him thus far. “I…” he says at first, then shakes his head. “Yeah, I mean – go be with your hot chick girlfriend.”

 

“You’re annoying.”

 

“Hate you too.”

 

/

 

incoming call: Veronica Lodge

 

/

 

“Hello?”

 

“Uh, hi,” says Veronica over the other end and you can imagine her looking at the floor like it’s suddenly more interesting than anything else in the rest of the world. “I, um, I’m sorry for disappearing like that on you.”

 

“Hm,” you say, mostly because you don’t know how to formulate a response.

 

“I was scared,” she says after a long pause. “I mean – God, Betty, this isn’t  _ working _ – I don’t know how to be your friend. I never really did.”

 

“Veronica,” you say, amusedly, “we were best friends for two years before we dated,” though you don’t mean it. You know what she means. You remember looking at her in a way best friends don’t. You remember the lingering touches, glances, everything.

 

Part of you doesn’t want to recognize what she said. Part of you is so happy you don’t know how to breathe.

 

“They were the most painful two years of my life,” says Veronica, then pauses. “Scratch that, no, second most painful.”

 

“Your father?” you say carefully.

 

“That wasn’t a two year period,” says Veronica, thoughtful this time. “You know we weren’t that close. He basically bought my love. It’s just a difference of me buying my presents and him buying them for me.”

 

“Veronica–”

 

“It was being separate from you. Those two years.”

 

You’re silent.

 

“So, uh. Now you know.” She laughs, but it’s garbled. “Call me when you know what you want.”

 

And she hangs up.

 

/

 

You sit back in your apartment and stare at your phone with disappointment. You know she didn’t want to hear that – she just wanted to be friends. You’ve been a terrible girlfriend, regardless.

 

So, you sit back and grab the Chinese takeout from the fridge from last week and start rewatching Parks and Rec on Netflix. You aren’t sure what you’re expecting – a call right away, maybe, but by the time you’re on episode five of the first season you can’t be bothered.

 

You sink into your couch and, for the first time in weeks, allow yourself to mope and have some self-pity. At least it was clean, you try to tell yourself. At least all the loose ends are all done up.

 

That’s all you can bring yourself to think. You don’t know how to breathe. Cheryl texts you twenty-three times and you ignore her. Jughead texts you four times and you ignore him. You just sink into your couch and watch Netflix. Sometimes you pull out your phone and read Buzzfeed articles – what celebrity are you?

 

(You never seem to get yourself).

 

You don’t even know what’s going on in the show, between your phone and trying not to think at all, but at some point you remember Mark was a character – yes, halfway through season one – and everything starts to fit together. You just become re-invested in the characters and your phone lies on the coffee table, forgotten.

 

It feels good to just let go and watch television.

 

You’ve finished season one when your doorbell rings. “Coming!” you yell, pushing yourself from your couch, not even bothering to notice how bad you look. Your eyes are probably red and puffy from crying. Your hair is in knots.

 

When you open the door, it’s Betty. “Hi,” she says awkwardly, and you are suddenly, painfully aware of how beautiful she is, how her eyebrow lifts up slightly when she speaks and how you look like complete and utter garbage.

 

You fight the urge to slam the door shut. “That was fast,” you say instead, though it felt excruciatingly long. She shrugs. 

 

“Veronica–” A pause, while she tries to figure out what she’s saying. “I’m sorry, I should have come sooner. I knew – I knew what to say. What I wanted, I just – I was scared.” She sighs, tightens her ponytail.

 

“And?” you say, trying to remain aloof, though your heart is beating faster and you’re trying to remember how to breathe normally. You open your mouth to say something –  _ anything _ – but before you can, she’s pulled you closer and forcefully pressed her lips against yours in a single movement.

  
She pulls away far before your liking, and stunned, you reach a hand up to your lips. “Oh,” you say, feeling your lips.

 

“It’s not – it’s not everything, but this is a start, okay?” she says, and you nod, and pull her in again.

  
“I just want to kiss you again,” you say, trying to refrain from grinning.

 

/

 

The invitation comes later than you expected. It’s been three years since they got back together, and you were  _ just _ about to call Veronica and complain about not being invited, on account of getting them back together at  _ your wedding. _

 

Well. She says it’s more complicated than that, but it’s not.

 

The invitation has yellow roses and curly writing. It’s most definitely designed by Betty, but it’s cute. It’s very them. 

 

“Cheryl!” calls Josie from the living room, and you turn to look in her general direction, though you can’t see her.

  
“Come here!”

 

Your wife groans, then pads over to you. You’re holding up the invitation triumphantly, though she tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear before looking down at the envelope. “I told you they’d get married,” you say, grinning.

 

“Took their time, didn’t they?” says Josie. “What date’s on the envelope?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty for sticking w this! upon rereading, all of this is in dire need of editing etc etc so im p surprised yall made it tbh

**Author's Note:**

> yo im umberonica.tumblr.com !! chat w me abt my fics thanks
> 
> also ily to @hwfflepwff/vangoghstars who was instrumental to this fic and sat through many cryptic texts composed entirely of "i love veronica" "i love betty" and, most common "what is veronica doing who is she"


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